Travis withdrew his sword halfway out of its scabbard and gazed at the reflection on the blade, recalling the lives he had cut short with it. All the screams, moans and pleas for mercy seemed to have condensed into a drop of heavy blood, sliding back and forth on the edge of the blade. When he was still a bandit, he had killed many people. And since becoming a member of the Seventh, he had killed even more for the Elder. But now, all that was left in his heart was endless anxiety.
Two nights ago, the Elder had summoned Travis and read him some materials in person. They were all information about the bribes he had provided to members of the council for the Archbishop. For a moment, he thought he was going to die. But the Elder just made a few indirect remarks and then let him go.
When the Elder asked, "What do you think of these things?", Travis answered, "I don't know." The fear that had almost burst out of his chest at the time still lingered in his body. This was not just the fear of losing his life, but the fear of finding that his own hands could not grasp anything.
Why didn't the Elder kill him? Travis thought of two possibilities. One was that the Archbishop had finally compromised and given up using the information, but out of the little sense of justice left, he did not tell the Elder the name of the informant. The other was that the Elder already knew he was the traitor, but still blindly believed in his own deterrent power and did not decisively execute the betrayer on the spot.
No matter which possibility, the result was the same. Travis understood that his plan had failed even before it really began. The Archbishop never had enough courage to confront the Elder head-on, and the Elder did not take him seriously at all. He was like a spider weaving its web in a not so hidden place, thinking that its web would be vast, strong yet unaware that people around could destroy its petty achievements at any time.
He sheathed his sword and looked back at Dalia, who was sitting under a tree in the distance. On the other side of the open space was Mardias, playing with hunting dogs and servants. He had seen this scene many times before: a mother longing to spend more time with her son, and a boy lacking normal human emotions, always busy with his own affairs. Travis had heard many rumors about Dalia's husband, none of which were accurate, but which made Travis feel that he and she had something in common: having to depend on the Elder unwillingly. He didn't know how long ago he began to realize that he hoped to see Dalia smile. For this, he was very willing to slap Mardias and drag him over to his mother.
He tried to calm himself, then walked over to Dalia. She looked up and stared at him guardedly, which displeased him. He knew that if Jorgen walked over to Dalia, she would not have such a reaction.
"Is there anything wrong, Travis?"
"Nothing, ma'am."
This sentence seemed to make her more vigilant, and she shifted to the other side.
"I haven't seen Jorgen for many days." Travis said.
"How strange that you ask about him."
"Not just here. I didn't see him at Master Mardias's residence either."
"No wonder. He doesn't need to tutor Mardias anymore."
This sentence attracted Travis's attention. Jorgen had disappeared. Why did he disappear at this time? If he didn't need to tutor anymore, he should appear more frequently around Dalia, Travis thought.
"Travis, if there's nothing else, please don't stand next to me all the time. I want to rest for a while, and you make me feel nervous."
"Ma'am, I was wondering, don't you think Jorgen's behavior is suspicious?"
"What are you talking about? Judging him is not your job."
"What I mean is..." Travis noticed that Dalia's eyes were filled with disgust for him. He said no more and turned away.
Travis felt that his former desire to see Dalia smile was like a joke. To her, he had always been just an eyesore. He once wanted to tell Dalia, "Ma'am, you shouldn't trust Jorgen so much. He is so suspicious, like a pawn planted beside you by the Elder." What a joke.
His anxiety was reaching its peak. After many years in the Military Intelligence Section 7 and frequenting various official venues with strict etiquette, he had slowly grown a neat, hypocritical human shell. Now this uncontrollable anxiety turned into a pair of scorched hands, tearing off his shell and exposing the rotten and bloodthirsty core underneath.
He recalled himself before being forced to join the Seventh. A straightforward bandit who seldom considered the consequences of his actions. He believed then that the only thing that could really make a human submit was facing death threats face to face, not words. Long-term plans were nothing compared to stabbing a man in the heart and then seizing his money bag. It was the same with women.
That was the way that suited him! Life didn't have to be so complicated. There were no such things as future, strategy, and when there were none of these in his mind in the past, he lived much happier. Thinking of this, Travis felt a kind of long-lost ease and confidence in his own strength growing again. He thought the Elder had made a terrible mistake by not killing him on the spot the other night. He would pay dearly for this mistake.
Travis looked around. The guards were scattered around the edge of the open space, and as their long-term commander, he was naturally not guarded too much. Mardias and a male servant were in front of the bushes in the distance, holding a piece of beasts Skin, letting a young hunting dog sniff.
Travis walked over and told the servant that Dalia was looking for him, sending him away. Then he squatted down beside Mardias and said, "A bit boring, isn't it?"
The hunting dog barked at Travis. He grabbed it by the neck ring with his right hand and dragged it under his feet, breaking its neck; at the same time, his left hand covered Mardias's nose and mouth.
"Quiet," he said, "I'll take you to see a real beast show, but time is tight so you probably won't get to say goodbye to your mom."
Jorgen had carefully considered secretly crossing the river instead of passing through Westbrook Garrison again, but now it seemed that this round of thinking was in vain. Only halfway through the Westfall, when he woke up by the extinguished bonfire, he found that he and Bossia had been surrounded by nearly fifty soldiers.
"Don't be afraid." Facing Bossia's pleading eyes, Jorgen said this. This was a psychological word. Since the army surrounding them was the Stormwind army instead of a group of assassins, Bossia really had nothing to fear.
The army was still friendly to them, without using any means to restrict their actions, allowing them to ride their own horses and squeeze into the team, back to Westbrook Garrison. The colonel still greeted them with a smile, and that smile was even more amiable than last time.
"Welcome back," said the colonel. "Mr. Jorgen, and—Miss Bossia Wislanzo."
"No need to smile like that, Colonel." Jorgen said. "It looks like we are enemies who deceive each other. If it were just the two of us now, I would punch you hard in the face."
"No, no. After all, we are just following orders from above, and it seems you have misunderstood me. In fact, I received orders from Archbishop Benedictus to send the army to pick you up."
"The Archbishop's order..."? Bossia said.
"Yes. He was very worried about you two, and personally instructed me in writing to ensure that you were safely escorted back to Stormwind. I still don't know why you pretended to infiltrate the checkpoint, but that doesn't matter, because I only care about whether I can fulfill my responsibilities. Please rest in the castle for now, I will have someone prepare hot water and food as soon as possible."
Jorgen and Bossia dismounted and followed the duty soldier through the castle.
"Jorgen, what's going on?" Bossia leaned close to Jorgen and said.
"I said you would be safe."
"I mean, how did the Archbishop know we were in the Westfall?"
"Don't underestimate that colonel. Of course, we may have left other traces."
"What will happen next?"
"They will escort you back to Stormwind. I can't say for sure. At least, they will not allow a female paladin and a MI7 agent to enter the city at the same time."
"I hope you can be safe too..."
"Listen, Bossia. Your safety is not something you can control." Jorgen lowered his voice. "What you need to do is: after returning to Stormwind, tell the archbishop everything we have experienced. Only tell him in person, he knows what to do. You will no longer be locked up by Shawl."
"Shawl will know you investigated these things."
"Precisely because of this, you have to let more people know, making it difficult for Shawl to deal with me."
"You really have a personal grievance with him."
"Far from just personal grievances. I'm going to fight him to the end, and I'm not afraid to tell you now."
They entered the lounge. In the center of the room, there was a table with cups containing residual wine and a pile of mixed cards. The duty soldier walked out and closed the door.
Bossia stood in the middle of the room and looked around.
"This room is stuffy."
"You're just not used to it. For such a long time, staying in the wild, those cottages are leaking everywhere."
"Also."
Jorgen walked to the side of the room and sat down in front of the table. Bossia was still standing, but she turned her back to him. Looking at the cold stone walls around her, she felt that she had returned to the thick walls of the Holy Light Cathedral prematurely. She raised her head, and a beam of light passing through the glass shone in her eyes. The dust accumulated on her hair for days fell off, making her sneeze.
"I know you will definitely say 'it's just work', but I still want to thank you." She said. "Let me know so much. About Neil, and many other things."
"This is just work...," Jorgen changed his mouth, "forget it."
"What did your former partners say when the case was completed in the past?"
"Say nothing."
"For example, 'happy cooperation'."
"Such clichés were never mentioned. Let alone amateurs like you, how could it be called happy cooperation."
"'Goodbye'?"
Jorgen did not speak. Bossia turned around and saw Jorgen stand up, staring straight at the door.
"What are you looking at?"
"Come over here, Bossia," Jorgen said, "don't stand there."
He heard a rhythmically unique footsteps. This sound, once heard, will not be forgotten. Not one person, but two people's footsteps.
"Hurry up, don't be in a daze. Come behind me!"
Bossia retreated behind Jorgen, full of confusion looking at him, until she heard the door open, she turned her gaze forward, her heart immediately beating violently.
It was the Undertaker. These two tall black puppets, whether in the dark or in the light of day, made people breathe irregularly when staring at them. The one standing behind closed the door, and after the echo, the whole room fell into an elusive silence, but their distorted breathing under the mask was amplified in such an environment.
Jorgen drew out a dagger, but he was not sure what to do. He had faced many vicious enemies before, but at least he knew what the other party was going to do and choose his own strategy accordingly. But the Undertaker left him at a loss. He couldn't see their eyes, palms, or even weapons.
I was too careless. Maybe I overestimated Bossia's importance to the archbishop, or maybe he had reached some compromise with the old man. The situation no longer allowed Jorgen to think too much. The first Undertaker walked up and raised his right hand. There was no weapon in his grasp. Jorgen swung out a knife, aiming at the enemy's chest.
First he heard a sound like metal shattered, then he felt a powerful impact on his right arm, as if an iron hammer had hit the dagger, and the force passed from his five fingers all the way to his elbow. The weight on his right hand became lighter. He raised his arm and saw that the dagger he had trusted and used for several years had shattered.
The tightly clenched right fist of the Undertaker was stained with some metal debris. He twisted his wrist. He used his fist to break Jorgen's dagger. He raised his head slightly, and the expression on the mask became more distorted, seeming to mock Jorgen.
Jorgen threw away the knife handle, turned around to grab the sword hanging on the wall. But before his fingers touched the scabbard, a four-inch, little-finger-thick steel needle was deeply pierced into his right shoulder. The second Undertaker standing by the door lowered his arm.
He helplessly lowered his arm, watching the enemy in front wave his fist again. When his side touched the fist, he immediately felt that those hands seemed to no longer be flesh and blood, but the indescribable pain completely cut off his ability to think. He collapsed, his vision darkened for a moment, and his nose soon smelled the bloody smell from his own mouth.
Jorgen's eyelids were trembling. He saw the Undertaker approaching the inescapable Bossia, reaching out his hand and saying:
"The key."
Rather than human words, it sounded more like a wound being forcibly torn open.
Don't give it to them, the remaining consciousness swept through Jorgen's brain. He could still see Bossia trembling with fear, even if she wanted to actively hand over the key, she couldn't do it. The Undertaker reached out and grasped the thin rope around her neck, and viciously pulled out the key. Her white neck was scratched with a bloodstain by the rope. The crimson blood in Jorgen's field of vision gradually expanded and melted with his own blood, eventually becoming pitch black.